Shen Ran stared down at Song Yichen's body sprawled across the floor of the dead president's office.
Around him lay the bodies of the armed guards who had tried to stop him, the room filled with the sharp metallic scent of blood.
His hand tightened over his left shoulder.
He had been shot.
"Damn it," Shen Ran muttered under his breath, glancing down at the crimson soaking rapidly through his shirt. "That was way too close."
He yanked off his jacket and bound it tightly over the wound, biting back a harsh hiss as he pulled the fabric taut.
An alarm suddenly began blaring throughout the building, red emergency lights flashing rhythmically against the walls.
Shen Ran's expression hardened.
Time to move.
